


The Spider's Child

by fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Growing Up, Kidnapping, Loneliness, Lonely Dads, Love at First Sight, Lukas family childrearing techniques, M/M, Peter tries his best but he's still a Lukas, Spiders, Strained family relationships, Web!Jonathan Sims, genderfluid Jonathan Sims, guest appearance from the corruption, lots of creepy bugs, occasional graphic violence, specifically Martin's mum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Martin Lukas was five when his father came to his mother's house and carried him away like a monster in a fairy tale. Things aren't always so bad for him, though. Papa teaches him about the sea and stars, and his husband Elias passes on his love of knowledge. There are also the spiders, who crawl onto Martin's pillow at night to whisper to him about the Mother of Puppets, and the boy they stole. His name is Jon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this absolutely gorgeous art from Crystal Requiem, my Big Bang partner! <3 Be sure to hit them up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/requiemjunkie/) and/or [Tumblr](https://crystalrequiem.tumblr.com/) and shower them with praise.

[Image description: There are two panels. On the left is a young Jon against a black background, and on the right is a young Martin in a lightly colored room. Jon is hanging from delicate spiderwebs against a black background, his body angled toward Martin. He has elfin features and long, red hair in an elaborate braid, and he is wearing an oversized black t-shirt and lilac leggings. He holds a smooth stone in his hand, which is extended in Martin's direction. Martin is crouched on his bedroom floor, illuminated by sunlight. He has a round face and wavy brown hair, and he is wearing a lilac button-down and dark trousers. A large spider is cupped between his hands as he gazes at it admiringly. Beside him on the floor is a small, jagged rock. In the foreground are two boxes and a book with a stylized eye logo, with small webs between them. A web extends from Jon's outstretched hand to Martin's. A stylized black and white frame surrounds the image and extends between the two panels.]

* * *

Martin was five when Papa took him to live at his house. He’d cried and clung to his mummy’s leg, but in the end, she’d been the one to hand him over. His father had carried him off like a fairy tale monster in the night, and he’d wept the whole way there. 

It wasn’t all bad, though. Sometimes Papa took him on his boat and taught him about sailing: how to tie knots, mend sails, and navigate by starlight. He knew the sea was the place Papa loved best, so he wanted to learn all about it. 

Other times, though, Papa went places he didn’t want Martin to go, so he stayed behind with Uncle Elias. Papa had other family, Martin knew, but he didn’t want Martin around them. He never said why. 

(_ What’s so bad about me? _he often wondered. But he never said this aloud, because Papa didn’t like when he talked like that.)

Uncle Elias wasn’t so bad. His lap wasn’t soft and warm like Mama’s had been, but he did occasionally allow Martin to sit there while he read, as long as he didn’t move or make too much noise. Martin would try to follow along as best he could, though Uncle Elias’s books had long words, and some of them weren’t even in English. 

“Do you miss Papa?” Martin asked once.

“Sometimes,” Elias answered, flipping a page. 

Martin considered that for a moment. He knew Uncle Elias was different from him. He rarely said _ yes _ or _ no _ to a question, preferring Martin to work it out for himself. He thought he knew which one Elias meant. 

After a long silence, he asked, “Do you think Papa misses us?”

Elias turned his gaze on Martin. “I’m quite sure he does,” he said. 

“Then why doesn’t he stay with us always?”

Elias did something that shocked him then: putting his book aside, he reached out and ran his long fingers through Martin’s hair. Martin’s hair already looked a lot like Papa’s, except Martin’s wasn’t grey at the temples. Martin buried his head in Elias’s chest, inhaling the scent of black tea and cedarwood. 

“Your Papa goes away,” Elias said, “to make it all the better when he sees us again.”

* * *

Sometimes when Martin was lonely, he would talk to the spiders in his bedroom. 

Sometimes, if he was quite lucky, they would talk back. 

“I wish I had a friend,” he said one night to the cardinal spider on his pillow. The moon shone through his window, glinting on her many eyes. 

_ We’re your friends, hatchling, _ said the spider. _ If you’re very good, we can take you to meet our Mother someday. Wouldn’t you like that? _

“I’d like that very much,” Martin assured her. “But that’s not the same as someone my own age.”

_ Our Mother was old when this land was nameless rock. _

“I didn’t know a spider could live that long! She must be very large.”

_ And very beautiful. _

Martin imagined her: a spider the size of a person, or a house. Would she have just the eight legs, or more? 

What would she eat?

_ There is someone we could bring to meet you, _ the spider said.

Martin sat up in bed, nearly jostling the spider. “Really? Who?”

_ A human hatchling. We rescued him from his dull little life, just as we can rescue you. _

“Papa and Uncle Elias would be cross if I went away with you,” Martin said. At least he thought they would. They already scolded him if he went too deep into the woods behind the house. 

_ Why don’t you meet our hatchling, love? He can show you the ways of the Web. You can play among the glistening strands, listening to the music of our Mother, and watch the puppets dance. _

“And you wouldn’t take me away with you?”

_ Not unless you ask. _

Martin nodded, settling down in bed. “I’d like that.” 

That night, he dreamed of a moonlit forest strung with shimmering strands of silk, and a sharp-eyed boy who chased him through the trees. When he woke, his face was damp with tears. 

* * *

Sometimes Uncle Elias took Martin to work with him. 

“Rather seems like cheating, doesn’t it?” Papa would ask, elbowing Elias. 

“The child should know his options,” Elias would say icily. “Come along, Martin.” 

Martin loved Elias’s office, with its polished mahogany desk and its thick rugs. Martin often sat with his drawing pencils while Elias had meetings with important people. Some of them were quite nice, like the research assistants who slipped him sweets and ruffled his curly hair. Others made him deeply uncomfortable, and he snuck glances at them as they spoke to his uncle. 

Afterwards Elias would ask his impressions. What had he thought of the man who smelled like the soil under a rotting log, crawling with beetles and grub worms? Did he think Elias should trust the woman whose eyes looked like storm clouds? Elias tested him, and guided him to the correct conclusions. 

Most of the visitors ignored him, but one, a tall woman with coppery skin and glossy braids down to her waist, gave him a wave and a secret smile. She had slim hands with very long fingers, and something in the way she walked reminded him of his secret friends. Her braids seemed to move more than they should.

Elias’s face went cold, and he stood quickly, shoving his chair back so hard it nearly toppled over. 

“Our son is _ not _for you,” he snapped. “Nothing will protect you from what happens if you touch him.” 

The woman smiled slowly, showing all her teeth. 

“We can’t steal what comes to us willing.”

Elias scowled, but Martin’s heart sang. _ Our _ son. 

* * *

After that, Martin’s friends came less often. He missed them, but now he carried a secret joy: he was not just Papa’s son but Elias’s, too. It made him miss Mummy less, though he still thought about her often. When he asked, Papa would simply say she was being cared for by all the best people. He hoped she at least smiled now, even if it took him leaving for it to happen. 

His friends never went away entirely, though. They tended to visit him when he was playing in the garden, or when his tutors weren’t looking. Papa and Elias were out for an evening in London (“the secret to any happy marriage,” Papa would say with a wink, before Elias elbowed him sharply) when his friends finally mentioned the other hatchling again. The boy like him. 

It was the cardinal spider who said,_ We’ve brought him, if you’d like to meet him. _

Martin’s chest swelled with excitement. “Yes, of course! Please!”

A boy stepped out from the trees, and Martin’s heart skipped a beat. 

The boy was smaller than Martin, but his eyes were sharp, and he thought they might be the same age. His face was dirty, but his long, red hair was immaculately plaited and woven into intricate shapes. He wore a black t-shirt so large it drooped off his shoulders, with what looked like a girl’s pink leggings. His feet were bare, but he showed no sign of pain when he walked over the bare earth. Martin couldn’t stop staring. 

“Hello,” he said, finally remembering his manners. He thrust out a hand to shake, and the boy gave him a puzzled look before taking it in both of his, turning it this way and that to inspect it. After several moments, he released it, seemingly satisfied. 

“My name is Martin.” 

The boy frowned, as if thinking. “J-Jon,” he said finally. 

_ Jon. _ He tucked the name inside his heart, treasuring the sound of it. He still couldn’t stop looking at his new friend. 

“Is—is your papa with the spiders?” Martin asked. Or, _ is your papa like my papa? _ He wasn’t sure why or how, but something told him each of his fathers had their own version of the spiders, though he wasn’t sure what they were. 

Jon shook his head. “I don’t remember a father. There’s a Mother, but she’s not..._ my _ mother.” He wriggled his hands for effect. “I don’t have the right number of legs.”

“Maybe when you’re older,” Martin said hopefully. 

Jon smiled; a strange and lopsided expression, but still a smile. 

“Would you like to play?” Martin asked. 

Jon nodded quickly. It turned out he didn’t know the games Martin had learned when he lived with his mother, but they soon made their own games: chasing each other through the woods, pointing out strange plants to each other, and skipping stones over the lake. Jon was the best at skipping stones; his seemed to go on and on forever, leaving gleaming ripples on the surface. Martin’s sank pretty quickly. 

Finally they sank down together on the grass, lying side by side. 

“Would you—would you like to stay the night?” Martin asked nervously. Martin’s bed was big enough for both of them. He’d even take the floor if Jon liked. 

“I can’t,” Jon said. “Your fathers—wouldn’t like me, I think.”

_ “I _ like you,” Martin said. “I like you more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Martin instantly regretted the words. Mummy had always told him he was too impulsive, too free with his affections. He was going to scare Jon off, and then he’d be alone again. 

Jon turned onto his side to stare at Martin’s face. He didn’t look away after a few seconds like most people did, just watched Martin whenever he liked. Martin wasn’t used to being looked at so much. It was...nice.

“I think I like you, as well,” Jon said. 

In the distance, Martin heard Papa calling his name. The sound startled him; he’d forgotten there was a world outside the one he and Jon had drifted into.

“You should go,” Jon said. 

“Please don’t forget me,” Martin begged. Reaching into his pocket, he took out one of the prettier stones they’d found, one he’d been planning to keep on his bedside table. He thrust it into Jon’s hand. 

“It’s a gift. To remember me by.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment before closing his fist around the stone. Reaching into his own pocket, he pulled out his own stone. Whereas Martin’s had been smooth and shiny, Jon’s was rough, with pointed edges. He pressed it into Martin’s palm. 

“To remember _ me,” _ Jon said. “Now go.”

Martin’s father scolded him when he came home covered in dirt and with leaves in his hair, but it was worth it. 

* * *

Papa had been in his study with a strange man for over an hour. Usually Martin could go wherever he liked, but this time Papa had locked the door and told him to stay away. Naturally, Martin had stationed himself across the hall. 

“He’s too young!” Papa insisted. 

“You were younger,” the stranger said. 

Martin could hear them easily even through the thick wooden door. It wasn’t technically eavesdropping if he hadn’t meant to, was it?

“And if he gets lost in there? What then?” Papa demanded.

“Then you’ll make another one. I’m sure you still remember how to do it?”

“Fuck off, Nathaniel.”

“The boy has to go. If you don’t take him, _ I _will.”

There was a crash from something heavy hitting the wall, and Papa used words Martin didn’t recognize but knew his Mum wouldn’t approve of. Martin took that as his cue to scurry upstairs, clutching Jon’s rock in his hand. 

Later that night, Papa came to his room, where Martin was curled in bed with a book. Papa brushed his hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. 

“There’s something I need to show you,” Papa said. “I’d hoped to wait until you were older, but—well. It’s traditional for our family’s children to meet our patron.”

“Did Elias do it, too?”

Papa chuckled. “I’m afraid Elias doesn’t worship the way we Lukases do. Not for lack of my trying.”

Martin was torn. On one hand, he wanted to be like Papa. On the other, he didn’t want to be _ unlike _Elias. 

“Will Elias still want me if I’m with Forsaken?” Another, worse thought occurred to him. “Will you still want me if I’m not?”

Papa squeezed his hand. 

“It’s your choice, son, and I won’t rush you to it. I don’t think they’ll ever leave you alone, not being who you are. You wouldn’t really be a Lukas if you spurned Forsaken, but you’d still be _ mine _.” He paused. “Unless you did something truly appalling, like joining the Desolation.”

“I won’t do that,” Martin promised, though he had no idea what his father meant. 

Papa had him dress in his best clothes, the plum-colored suit he’d let Martin pick out himself. Then he tied Martin’s hair with a velvet ribbon, and smoothed his lapels with his hands. Papa’s hands were some of the largest Martin had ever seen. They made him feel small and safe, like Papa could tuck him into his pocket. 

Elias was in London on business, so there was no one to say goodbye to. 

* * *

The car ride was long and quiet. Martin liked to listen to the radio, but something in his father’s face told him he shouldn’t ask. With each passing mile, Martin became more anxious, until his worry became a knot in his stomach. He clutched at the stone in his pocket, tracing the rough edges with his thumb.

Martin wasn’t sure how long they drove. It felt like days. He was almost relieved when they finally stopped in front of a small chapel. Even at night, Martin could see it was old, with cracked paint and crumbling steps. 

They got out of the car, and Papa crouched down to look him in the eye. 

“I can’t go with you, lad.” His eyes bore into Martin’s, as deep and blue as the sea. “But I need you to remember who you are. You’re a Lukas, and you’re my son, and you _ will _come back.”

Papa had never spoken to him this way. Martin wanted to cry, or cling to his waist and never let go. But he did neither of those things, because he wanted Papa to think he was brave.

“Is-is this because I’m bad?” he asked.

Papa laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. 

“If you were bad, we wouldn’t be here.”

The chapel doors were massive, with ornate handles set into dark wood. They were locked with a padlock and a heavy iron chain. Martin was surprised to see his father pull out a large brass key. He opened the padlock and removed the chain, but made no move to enter. 

“It has to be you who opens it,” Papa said. 

Martin took one last look at his father, committing his face to memory: the strong jaw, the sea-colored eyes, the greying hair at his temples. He often wished he’d done the same with his mother. 

Then he opened the door. 

* * *

To Martin’s surprise, there was nothing inside the chapel at all: no pulpit, no pews, no stained glass windows like in films. Instead he stood on the edge of a forest. 

He turned around, expecting to see the door behind him, but it was gone. As was his father. The only thing behind him was a copse of trees. The space around him was silent except for the rustle of wind in leaves: no hum of traffic or insects. 

Martin was alone. 

He’d never been alone, not really. Even when his fathers were gone, there were always servants around. Even when they were too busy to talk to him, they were a silent, comforting presence that kept the house from feeling empty. 

He took a step forward, and then another. A cold, damp fog rolled around his ankles, making him shiver. He had no idea where he was. Nothing had prepared him for this situation. He looked up at the cool night sky.

The stars could guide him, he realized. He just had to find the North Star like Papa taught him. He grinned, eager to put his knowledge to use, and searched for the brightest star. It took him a few minutes, but he found it, right there in Ursa Minor. Pride swelled in his chest, and he searched for a path among the trees. 

There was a space between two oaks. The brush was dense, and thorns clung to his clothes, but there was at least a path to follow. The woods would have been beautiful in other circumstances. Martin loved to look for birds’ nests and spider webs, to run his hands over rough bark and count how many kinds of flowers he could find. Sometimes he’d take them home, and he and Elias would look in one of his books—

Martin’s fists clenched by his sides. Elias wasn’t there. No one was. 

No one was with him, and no one cared if he came back. The knowledge hit him like a stone thrown in his face, sudden and stinging.

He hadn’t seen his mum in years. Sometimes he could barely remember her face. He knew they had the same eyes, but her hair had been long and straight and pale. The skin under her eyes was always dark and puffy. She’d watched impassively as Papa took him away, and she’d never called or written, not even once. As far as she was concerned, Martin didn’t exist. Would he even recognize her if he saw her?

Would she recognize him?

Papa had left him here, and Elias wasn’t even really Martin’s father. They’d probably be happier without Martin in their way, always distracting them and making a mess of things. They had been perfectly happy before Martin came, and they would be perfectly happy without him. 

Hot tears spilled down Martin’s cheeks, and he wiped them on his sleeve. He knew, suddenly, that he could keep walking forever and never find his parents. He could walk forever in this place without meeting another person, for the rest of his life. 

Without thinking, he ran, pushing through the briars and brambles as fast as he could, not caring when they tore his skin. Maybe if he ran fast enough, things would be good again. He would be someplace else, someplace where he wasn’t alone. He ran until he was out of breath, and sagged against the trunk of an ash tree. 

When he looked up at the sky, he moaned in fear. The stars were _ wrong. _They shone just as bright as before, but it was as if someone had scooped them up and scattered them at random. The constellations were out of place, and he couldn’t find the North Star at all. 

He sagged to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees. He’d never realized the sky itself would betray him. He sobbed into his hands, and there was no one to stop him. That knowledge just made him cry harder, until his eyes were swollen and painful, and his throat ached. His hair was stuck to his wet face. Sniffling, he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, when his fingers closed around a rough stone. 

_ Jon. _The memory of his face warmed Martin’s chest, his high cheekbones and his clever eyes. He’d do anything to see Jon again. 

_ Martin? _

He startled. He could have sworn he heard Jon’s voice. 

_ Martin, where are you? _

There was a sensation like a tugging in his chest, as if he were attached to an invisible cord. The cord vibrated with tension, like a harp string being played. Or a spider’s web. 

_ Answer me, _Jon demanded. He almost sounded frightened. 

“I’m here!” Martin said. 

_ You’re so far away. _

“I know,” Martin said, wiping his face with his dirty hands. “I miss you.”

_ You need to come back. _

“I don’t know how!”

_ Follow me, _ Jon said. _ Follow my voice. _

Martin pushed himself to his feet and took one slow step, then another. 

_ That’s right. Keep coming. _

He wasn’t sure how long he followed Jon. The sky never lightened, and the moon showed no sign of setting. He lost count of how many brambles he pushed through, how many branches tore his clothes or stung his face. All he knew was the aching connection in his chest, and the sound of Jon’s voice. 

He nearly cried again when he saw the door looming ahead. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Martin said, clutching the stone tight in hand. 

_ I’ll see you soon, _Jon promised. Slowly, the strange feeling in Martin’s chest faded away, and he knew Jon could no longer hear him. 

Taking a deep breath, Martin opened the chapel door. 

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the sunlight, so bright it blinded him. He threw his arm over his eyes, blinking against the harsh light. Someone was shouting, but before he could focus on the words, they stopped. 

“Martin?”

He lowered his arm to see Elias, frozen mid-lecture. Without thinking, Martin launched himself in his direction, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

_ “Daddy,” _ he sobbed, burying his face in Elias’s shirt. Hands stroked Martin’s hair, running down his back, and he sagged against Elias.

A warm, firm weight pressed against Martin’s back, and a second set of hands was holding him. 

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” Papa said. “It’s always hard the first time.”

“Shut up, Peter,” Elias snapped. 

Papa drove them home, while Martin rode in the back with Elias, halfway in his lap. Martin’s whole body ached like one big bruise, and he shivered for a long time. Eventually, however, the warmth crept back into him. He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the rough little stone. It was enough to make him relax, and finally fall asleep, surrounded by his family. 

* * *

Papa and Elias stayed close to Martin the next several days. Elias even stayed home from the Institute, working from his study instead. Martin soaked up the attention like a sponge, savoring every moment.

His one regret was that the more time his fathers spent at home, the less the spiders came. He often found himself stroking the rough stone in his pocket, thinking of Jon’s voice in his ear. He wondered how it was possible to miss someone so much when they’d only met once. He wished he could ask Elias. Elias would know. But Jon had been sure Elias would keep them apart, and Martin couldn’t risk it. 

Eventually his fathers went back to work, and Martin found himself under much less supervision. He still had lessons during the day, but the household staff were more permissive than his parents. 

Early one evening, he saw a glimmer of spider silk in the trees outside. Intrigued, he slipped out the side door before anyone could notice. 

_ Lovely hatchling, _ his friend the cardinal spider said. _ He’s waiting for you. Will you come? _

“Yes!” Martin said hastily. “Please!” 

The spider silk twined between the trees, forming a trail. Martin all but ran, ducking through tree trunks and skirting low bushes, heedless of his clothes. All that mattered was seeing Jon again. 

The trail ended abruptly, and Martin stopped, panting. He looked around, but there was no sign of Jon. He was just beginning to worry when Jon stepped out from behind a stand of trees. 

“Martin,” Jon said. He was wearing a light green shift this time, with darker green leggings. The dress hung nearly to his knees and was edged with intricate lace. 

Before he could stop himself, Martin wrapped Jon tight in his arms. He smelled of dust and cobwebs and fresh leaves. For a moment Jon stood stiffly, but eventually he returned the embrace. 

“I missed you,” Martin said. 

“You nearly went away,” Jon said accusingly. 

“I did,” Martin admitted. “You brought me back.” 

Jon hugged him tighter before finally pulling away. 

“Where were you?” Jon asked. 

“I had to visit Papa’s patron.” Martin wrapped his arms around himself, shivering at the memory. 

“Forsaken,” Jon said. “Tell me about it?”

They walked together through the forest, and the story spilled out of Martin. The late night ride to the chapel. Papa’s worried face, even as he promised Martin would come back. 

Jon’s hand reached out to hold Martin’s. 

“We would never send you away,” Jon said, squeezing tight. 

Martin’s heart hammered in his chest. He could scarcely breathe for fear that he would say something, do something, that ended this perfect moment. It took everything he had to keep walking without stumbling over his own feet. 

“I don’t think Papa wanted me to go away,” Martin said finally. “It’s just...something we have to do. To prove ourselves.”

“What do you need to _ prove?” _ Jon snapped. “That you’re family? That you belong?”

“Has your family never asked you to do something you didn’t like?”

Jon looked away, his expression going oddly blank. He didn’t let go of Martin’s hand. 

“I suppose they have,” Jon said quietly. 

They had stopped walking. Martin wished he hadn’t said anything, because Jon’s eyes were cast downward. He struggled for some way to break the mood before Jon crouched down on the ground, knees splayed open in a way that reminded Martin of spider’s legs. 

“Look,” he said. 

Martin knelt beside him and peered over his shoulder. Jon gently pushed a fallen branch out of the way, and Martin realized what he was looking at. 

The spider was small and dark, with a round belly and long, dainty legs. Her web was incredibly intricate, tightly woven strands knit so close he could barely see through them. 

“She’s beautiful,” Martin breathed.

Jon smiled, pleased at his reaction. “She’s got eggs, too.” 

Martin looked closer, spying the white bulge of an egg sac, protected by layers of spider silk. 

“We take care of our own,” Jon said. “We could take care of you, too.” 

Martin stared down at the lace weaver’s nest, wondering what it would feel like to be wrapped in spider silk, safe and protected. Safe with _ Jon. _

“M-my fathers would miss me,” Martin stammered, tearing his gaze away. “This is nice, too, isn’t it? Being together in the forest.”

“It is,” Jon said, rising to his feet. 

He was barefoot again, Martin noticed, and apparently comfortable that way, even in the forest. Jon spun in a circle, shooting him a challenging look. 

“I bet you can’t catch me,” he said. 

Before Martin could get up, Jon was already running through the trees. 

Martin scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping before catching himself on a mossy stone. Jon darted between the tree trunks with astonishing ease, never seeming to get caught in the brambles. 

“Come back here!” Martin cried, laughing. 

Jon spared a look over his shoulder, but he didn’t slow down. Martin ran faster, jumping over rocks and fallen trees, consumed with the chase. He followed Jon until he lost track of which way they had come, but he didn’t care, because the gap between them was narrowing. 

He wasn’t expecting Jon to abruptly stop. Martin nearly collided with him, catching himself on a nearby tree trunk. He panted, leaning heavily against the tree. 

“Martin…” Jon said quietly. 

It took him a moment to realize what Jon was staring at. 

It was a man, or at least Martin thought it was. He was tall, taller even than Papa, but his face was swarming with shining black shapes. Beetles, he realized. They swarmed in and out of his skin, as if he were a rotting tree trunk, but his skin was still pink underneath. He was alive. Martin whimpered with fear, and the thing turned to face him. 

“Son of Forsaken,” the thing rasped. The beetles crawled from his mouth as he spoke. “Can’t you hear them singing? Come, listen to their song.” 

The sound of buzzing filled Martin’s ears, a terrifying hum that drowned out all else. He only had one thought in that moment: protect Jon. Even if it meant coming closer to the man with the beetles in his face. 

Martin rushed to Jon’s side, seizing him by the arm. “Come on!” he shouted over the buzzing. 

“Won’t you stay with us, sweet ones?” another voice droned. 

Martin turned to see another figure behind them. This one was shorter, though he couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, so much was missing, and their voice was distorted. Instead of beetles, this one was crawling with huge red ants with pinching jaws. He couldn’t stop staring as they crawled in and out of their host’s skin, taking bites of flesh and leaving swollen pink marks. The sight made him feel faint. He swayed on his feet. 

“Martin!” Jon cried, squeezing his arm tight. 

He looked down. The insects were scuttling towards them with alarming speed. Jon yanked at Martin’s arm, and suddenly they were running. 

Martin couldn’t stop seeing the beetles in the man’s face, crawling in and out. The thought of them touching him made his stomach churn. He’d thought he knew all there was to fear. 

He had been very wrong. 

His heart pounded, and his legs ached as he ran. He didn’t know where they were going, if they were heading home or deeper into the woods. They just needed to get _ away. _He didn’t know what would happen if those things touched him. He prayed he would never find out. 

Suddenly the two of them burst into open space. Martin’s garden. He nearly wept with relief. 

They stopped to catch their breath, leaning against each other. Jon’s hair was tangled with leaves and twigs, his face smeared with dirt. He looked like a wood nymph from one of Martin’s story books. Martin’s fingers itched to pluck the leaves from his hair. 

“Martin, your arm!”

Martin looked down just as something stung his forearm. He slapped at it, and his hand came away smeared in black. 

“Check your clothes!” Martin cried. He batted furiously at his arms and legs until he was sure they were clear, then checked Jon’s back. The straps of his dress were thin, exposing the freckles on his shoulders. He found an ant crawling up the back of Jon’s calf and smashed it. Jon did the same for him, batting away a pair of beetles that had burrowed in Martin’s hair. 

“W-what were those things?” Martin asked. 

_ “Filth,” _Jon said with an air of disgust. “Corruption. They like to call themselves flesh hives.”

“Are they—are they like you?”

“They’re nothing like me,” Jon snapped. “They can’t create. They only destroy what others have made. They can only make things_ rot.” _

“I’m sorry.” 

Jon softened. “It’s alright. You—you didn’t know.”

The low buzzing filled Martin’s ears again, and he gripped Jon’s arm. The man with the beetles stepped from the trees, followed by his companion. 

For the first time, Martin screamed. Jon pushed his way in front of him, putting his body between Martin and the flesh hives. 

“He’s _ mine,” _Jon said fiercely. “You can’t have him.”

The flesh hives laughed. A spray of beetles flew from the taller one’s mouth as he opened it. 

“Why would I just take _ you _ when I can have both?” he said, lips splitting in an inhuman grin. 

_ “What is the meaning of this?” _

Martin turned to see Elias glowering at the flesh hives. Papa stood next to him, eyes bright with fury. 

“None of your concern, Watcher,” said the one crawling with ants. 

“Not when you’ve got eyes on our son,” Papa said coldly. He stepped forward until he was between Martin and the flesh hives. 

“Or else what?” The beetle man laughed. “Your patron is useless against us. We are _ never _alone.”

“You will be if I kill your swarms,” Papa said evenly. “Down to the larvae. And then I’ll feed you to my patron, and I’ll feast on your pain and fear. You’ll make a fine meal, I think.”

“We’ll find each and every one of your nests, and burn them to the ground,” Elias added. “I know how to find them.”

The beetle man stared at Martin’s fathers with what was left of his eyes. 

“Retreat,_ Filth,” _ Jon snapped. 

The flesh hives scowled at Jon, but finally they turned to the forest. They left a wake of rotting grass behind them. Martin didn’t breathe again until they were well out of sight. 

“Jon,” he whispered, clutching his friend tight. Jon hugged him back, burying his face in Martin’s shoulder. They were both shivering. 

“What does the Mother of Puppets want with my son?” Elias asked. 

Jon sprang out of Martin’s embrace, looking guilty. 

“Jon is my friend!” Martin said. “We play together sometimes.”

“Spiders don’t have friends, Martin,” Papa said. “Only prey.”

“Jon’s different!”

Elias fixed Jon with a heavy stare. 

“I won’t harm you in front of my son,” Elias said. “So long as you leave this place, immediately, and never return.”

“Daddy!” Martin protested. 

“No, Martin, it’s...fine,” Jon said. “I need to go anyway. My family is waiting.”

“Jon, _ please—” _

No one heeded Martin’s protests. With a last, apologetic look, Jon disappeared into the trees. Martin tried to go after him, but his father stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Martin stared numbly at the spot where Jon had been. 

Moments later, Martin was pulled into a tight embrace, pressed between his fathers’ bodies. He clung to them desperately, half-afraid they would disappear and leave him with the flesh hives again. 

“Let’s go inside, lad,” Papa whispered. “And you can tell us what happened.”

That was when Martin finally broke, all the fear he’d been holding back pouring out in a flood of tears. He buried his face in his father’s shirt and sobbed as his body began to shake. Hands stroked his back and his hair, surrounding him with warmth as his fathers carried him inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin was eighteen when he went to work for the Magnus Institute with his father. Papa had argued he should go straight to university, but Martin suspected he enjoyed having Elias keep an eye on him. So to speak.

Martin was eighteen when he went to work for the Magnus Institute with his father. Papa had argued he should go straight to university, but Martin suspected he enjoyed having Elias keep an eye on him. So to speak. 

A few of the older staff remembered him from when he was a child, but for the most part, Martin stayed on professional terms with his father at work. Given the disdain with which most of the researchers treated Martin, it was working. 

London was incredible. He’d been there before on trips, but living there was an entirely different experience. Millions of people crammed into a few square miles, each with their own stories, their own memories, their own languages, and they all took it for granted. It was bright and busy, overwhelming but addictive. 

Martin took the city in small sips, at first sticking to the area around their flat, then taking in more and more, following his feet where they took him. He rode on crowded buses with American tourists; haunted museums with groups of students; and browsed record fairs with tattooed strangers in Camden. 

He enjoyed working at the Institute. He began as a general purpose assistant, going wherever he was needed at the time. He stamped and sealed letters to their donors, noting with amusement his father’s name on more than one envelope; carried messages between departments; and helped tag some of the safer items in Artifact Storage. 

It wasn’t exciting, but he liked the people he met there. One day he was carrying a box of files from his father’s office to the library when a scraggly figure appeared out of seemingly nowhere. Martin yelped, nearly dropping the box. 

“Sorry!” the stranger cried. “I’m lost!” 

Martin flushed. “I—sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“I, er—do you work here?” 

The stranger was a little older than Martin, and very tall, though he was lanky as a scarecrow. He was dressed in patched-together black clothing that was either extremely fashionable or disastrous, Martin couldn’t say. He had long, straight black hair with a hint of ginger at the roots, which matched the pale stubble on his lips and cheeks. 

“I do,” Martin said, shifting the box to extend his hand. “I’m Martin. Pleased to meet you.” 

“Gerard,” the stranger said, shaking his hand stiffly. “Or Gerry, if you like.”

“Are you here to give a statement?”

“Oh, er, no. My mum sent me to borrow a text from the library.”

“I was just headed there,” Martin said. “I’ll show you the way.”

Gerry brightened. “Oh, good. I was afraid I’d get lost.”

“Do you come here often?” Martin asked, before he realized how that sounded, and flushed. 

“Not really,” Gerry said, oblivious. “My mother and I usually don’t...work that closely. With the Institute, I mean.”

_ With our patron?  _ Martin wondered. He wasn’t really sure how to ask such a thing. Or even if one  _ did  _ ask such things. He decided to leave it alone. 

“You’re a bit younger than most of the staff here,” Gerry commented. 

“Yeah, it’s. A bit of an internship, I guess? Before I go to university.”

“Lucky,” Gerry said. “What do your parents think?”

“It was my dad’s idea. Though Papa would rather I had come work for him.” Martin laughed. “I don’t think I’d do well in the antiquities business, though.”

“You-you’ve got two dads?” Gerry asked, surprised. 

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a problem?”

“No!” Gerry shook his head frantically, hair swinging around his face. “I’ve just that I’m—I mean, I’ve never known other—you know.”

“I don’t know,” Martin said flatly. 

Gerry flushed to the roots of his badly-dyed hair. “Other...queer people. I mean, besides me.” 

“Oh!” 

It hadn’t occurred to Martin that his situation was unusual. He’d heard a few snide comments here and there about his family (never to his fathers’ faces), but he’d never imagined growing up without  _ anyone  _ like them. Martin had never thought much about his own preferences, but he knew his fathers wouldn’t care. 

“Yeah,” Gerry said, ducking his head shyly. “So it...just makes me kind of happy, to hear things like that?”

“That’s...I’m glad,” Martin said. 

They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence, passing researchers and their harried assistants. One of the grad students shifted her stack of books to wave at him as they passed. Martin waved back. He’d helped her find a treatise that had been missing from the stacks, and in return she’d brought him homemade baklava, flaky and honey-sweet. 

Finally they arrived at the library, and Gerry thanked him politely. 

“Would you...like to hang out sometime?” Martin asked impulsively. 

Gerry looked caught off guard for a moment, but then he grinned. “Um. Sure! If you give me your number, I can text you. Or there’s always Facebook.”

“I don’t have a mobile,” Martin admitted. “What’s a face book?”

Gerry stared at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second set of eyes. Then he just shook his head. 

“I can give you mine,” Gerry said, plucking a notebook out of his bag and bracing it against the wall to write. He ripped the page and handed it out to Martin. His penmanship was surprisingly elegant, tall, narrow letters with swooping curls. Martin smiled and placed it carefully in his pocket. 

* * *

“What on earth do you need a mobile for?” Elias asked, spearing a bite of asparagus. 

“I made a friend,” Martin said insistently. “You need a mobile for those.”

“Can’t you just call his house?” Papa said, taking a sip of his wine.

“No one does that anymore. They have...apps, and things.” 

In truth, Martin wasn’t sure exactly what an app was, but it sounded important. Gerry would tell him. Probably. 

His parents looked each other for a long moment. Elias quirked an eyebrow, and Papa simply shrugged. Elias sighed. 

“I suppose,” Elias said. “Who is this friend of yours, precisely?”

“Gerry. I met him at the Institute.” 

Elias’s eyes narrowed. “And what was this ‘Gerry’ doing at the Institute?”

“His mother sent him to get something from the library, but he didn’t know the way, so I showed him.”

“Mary’s boy?” Elias asked incredulously. 

“I...didn’t ask?” 

“Was he tall, about your age, with dreadful dyed hair?” Papa asked. 

“...I mean, it’s not  _ that  _ bad,” Martin said defensively. 

Papa leaned over to whisper something in Elias’s ear, and Elias took a long sip of wine, considering. 

“I’ll allow it,” Elias said finally. “Just don’t let him drag you to that shop of theirs, or their flat. Mary Keay’s a nasty piece of work.” 

Martin rose from his chair to hug each of this fathers in turn, grinning.

“Thank you, dad!” he said, kissing one of Elias’s cheeks, then leaning over to kiss Papa’s. “And you, too, Papa.”

“And don’t let that Keay boy get any ideas,” Papa warned, returning the embrace. “Lord knows what your father would do to him.”

Elias smiled serenely, and Martin laughed. He couldn’t picture his father really hurting anyone. 

* * *

The next day, Martin had a new mobile, top of the line, with hundreds of features he had no idea how to use. The man at the shop had been surprised at Martin’s ignorance. 

“Bit of a turn-up,” the man said, laughing. “Usually it’s you young folks teaching me.”

“My family’s a bit...traditional,” Martin explained. 

He wasted no time in setting up a meeting with Gerry, who suggested coffee near the Institute. The man at the shop had even showed Martin an app that told him which bus to take. The stop was less than a block away, and Martin arrived just in time. He was getting ready to board when something caught his eye: a glint of coppery red. He turned to look. 

The red was someone’s hair, done in an intricate, waist-length braid that reminded him of a waterfall. The hair belonged to a person about his age, though he couldn’t tell their gender. They were wearing a loose men’s dress shirt over a colorful skirt and combat boots. Something about the sight of them made Martin ache, like he was missing something. He didn’t understand until they turned to face him, and he gasped in recognition. 

“Jon?” he said instinctively. 

The person looked at him and paled, and Martin  _ knew.  _ It had to be him: he had the same high cheekbones, the same strong mouth and clever eyes. Martin had forgotten how much he missed looking at that face. 

Before Martin could react, Jon turned and fled, disappearing into the crowd. 

For the first time in years, Martin felt the familiar tugging in his chest, like a cord stretched from his heart to Jon’s hand. 

Martin had finally found him. 

But Jon didn’t want to be found. 

* * *

Martin wound up missing his bus and being ten minutes late to meet Gerry, who accepted his apology gracefully. 

“I tried to text you, but the icon for texts went missing and I couldn’t find it again,” Martin confessed. 

“Here, let me see. I can look at it while you order.” 

Martin handed over his mobile gratefully, then wandered over to the counter. He was instantly overwhelmed by the range of options, strange Italian-sounding concoctions he’d never heard of. His father drank Turkish coffee, and Elias preferred tea. 

“What would you like?” the girl behind the counter asked. She had blue hair, and a cartoon ghost tattooed on her forearm. 

“Erm. Sorry, I’m not sure. There’s so many things?” 

The girl laughed. “We get that a lot. What do you like? Sweet things? Lots of caffeine? Something nice and pretentious?”

“Sweet is good,” he said cautiously. 

The girl winked. “One vanilla bean macchiato, coming up.” 

By the time Martin got his order, Gerry had figured out what Martin had managed to do to his mobile. 

“Oh, thank god,” Martin said. “I only just got it, I’d hate to think I already broke it.”

“It’s pretty top of the line. Mine’s got cracks in it.” Gerry held up a battered mobile. The case was matte black, with cartoon skulls. 

“It’s got...character,” Martin said.

_ “Lots _ of character,” Gerry agreed, laughing. 

Martin took a sip of his drink and nearly moaned out loud. It was rich and milky, tasting of fresh ground vanilla with just a hint of bitterness. 

“I see Georgie’s got another convert,” Gerry said. 

“Is that her name? I’ll have to say thanks. Maybe name my firstborn after her.”

Gerry laughed. “Are you the family type?”

Martin flushed. “I mean...my dads seem pretty happy. I’ve never even been on a date, though.”

“No one special, then?”

Immediately Martin thought of Jon, with his clever face and his flowing hair. Gerry must have seen it in his expression, because he gestured for Martin to speak.

“It’s stupid,” Martin said. “He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

Only judging by Jon’s expression, he’d remembered quite clearly. 

“Tell me about him,” Gerry prodded. 

“Well, he’s...he’s different from anyone I’ve ever known. Clever, and strange, and a bit prickly. We were friends when we were children, but my dads...didn’t approve of his family, I guess. And there was an...accident. I never saw him again after that.” 

Martin stared down into his coffee. He hadn’t thought about that day in a long time. The spiders had stopped whispering to him after that, and his fathers hadn’t liked it when he mentioned Jon, so he...didn’t. Part of him had almost believed he’d imagined Jon and the spiders. But Martin could never dream up someone so perfect. 

“I’m sorry,” Gerry said. “That’s really awful. 

Martin shrugged, struggling to find a new topic, before he remembered something. 

“That reminds me!” Martin said. “Elias acted like he knew your mother.”

Gerry’s eyes went wide. “Elias  _ Bouchard?  _ What were you doing talking to him?”

“He’s my father. Well, stepfather, technically, but they’ve been together as long as I can remember.”

Gerry gaped. “Your father is Elias Bouchard.”

“...yes?”

“Shit, Martin. I didn’t realize...Next you’ll be saying your last name is Fairchild.”

Martin frowned, confused. 

“No, it’s Lukas,” he said.

“Holy  _ shit,  _ Martin!”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Martin said indignantly. 

“Oh, no big deal. Your fathers are just the heir to the Lukas family and the head of the damned Magnus Institute. Just two of the most powerful people in the supernatural world, who could kill me a hundred times over if I looked at them wrong. 

“Elias wouldn’t kill anyone,” Martin argued.

“No, he’d just sacrifice them to Beholding, and they’d kill themselves to escape.” 

Martin wanted to argue, but then he remembered the look on Elias’s face the day they’d been attacked by the Corruption. Then, he’d been ready to fight, and he didn’t look like someone was accustomed to losing. 

“He’s not a bad man,” Martin said instead. 

“I believe you,” Gerry said. “It’s just...it’s a lot. I mean, do you serve the Lonely, like the rest of them?”

“Not exactly. I mean, I’ve—visited? Papa took me there when I was younger. But I haven’t...served it.”

“Like a christening,” Gerry said, with a slightly hysterical laugh. “

“I guess,” Martin admitted. “You seem to know a lot about this stuff.” 

“My mum dabbles. She doesn’t really serve them as much as she serves herself. She spends a lot of time studying them, so she can learn to use their ‘gifts.’ ” He rolled his eyes at the last part. 

“That sounds nice,” Martin said. 

Gerry shuddered. “It really isn’t.” 

They talked until Martin finished his macchiato, and then he ordered another. Finally Gerry had to go home, but he promised they would see each other again. 

“After all,” Gerry said. “No one else could understand.”

Martin walked him to the bus stop, giving him a tight hug before he left. Gerry smelled of old books, of dust and dry paper. It wasn’t unpleasant. 

* * *

Martin was a disaster for the rest of the week, wandering the Institute lost in thought. He dropped things constantly, spilled tea on a pile of statements (which got him temporarily banned from the archives), and generally made an ass of himself until the weekend came. 

It was tempting to go to Elias for advice. After all, he knew more about the Web than Martin had dared to ask him. But it was easier to ask his father’s forgiveness than his permission, so it was with only a small amount of guilt that Martin prepared for the weekend. 

Saturday morning, he pulled a small box from under his bed, one with the kinds of small treasures a child might collect: dried leaves; a shimmering beetle’s carapace; and a small, sharp-edged rock. He closed his fingers around the last and shut the box. 

_ Where are you, Jon?  _ he asked the stone, shutting his eyes and concentrating on the empty place in his chest. 

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then he felt the tug in his chest, so hard he gasped. He nearly wept with relief. 

His plan was laughably simple: he’d packed food, water, and an Oyster card, intending to follow the strange feeling wherever it took him. He left his father with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to be back by dinner. 

It was difficult, because supernatural urges didn’t give a sense of scale, nor did they provide anything so specific as  _ take the number 19 three stops, then turn left.  _ It was through no small amount of trial and error that he wound up outside what appeared to be a knitting shop in Soho. WEAVER’S NEST, declared a brightly colored, hand-painted sign. 

The feeling was stronger than it had been since he saw Jon at the bus stop. His heart pounded, and he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. 

What would he even say?  _ Hi, Jon. Remember me, the boy you met twice before we nearly died? _

_ I’ve been thinking about you for years.  _

_ You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted. Please don’t find that creepy.  _

He’d just about summoned up the courage to open the door when it swung outward, revealing an unexpectedly familiar face. 

“Georgie!” he cried. 

“Do I know you?” she asked suspiciously. 

“I, uh—you made me a macchiato. My friend Gerry mentioned—”

“Oh! Gerry’s friend!” She grinned wickedly. “How’s that going?”

Martin flushed. “Er. Fine, I guess?”

“What brings you to Weaver’s? Knitting project?”

“Visiting a friend, actually,” Martin said nervously. “You?”

“Same, actually. Idiot will work all day without eating if someone doesn’t remind him.” She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. 

“That’s really kind of you.”

“Someone’s got to do it. Tell Gerry I said hi, yeah?”

“I will,” Martin said, smiling. 

“And don’t be a stranger.” 

Georgie winked, and Martin was left along at the door to the shop. 

_ I can do this,  _ Martin told himself.  _ I’ve come too far to turn back now.  _

He stared at the door until an older woman emerged, laden with bags of yarn and knitting needles, and he reflexively held the door for her. She nodded gratefully, and he ducked inside. 

The interior was warm and cozy, with a hardwood floor and endless shelves of colorful fabric. The smell of lavender and warm tea permeated the building. Martin could feel the pull, stronger than ever, and he took an involuntary step inside. A handful of shoppers perused bins of yarn and thread, ranging from pierced and tattooed hipsters to stooped grandmothers.

“How can I help you?” a woman asked from behind the till. She had a round, friendly face, and Martin instantly relaxed. 

“I’m, er—looking for someone? Jon. He’s a, um, friend.”

Martin probably should have prepared a better cover story, but he hadn’t really thought this far. 

The woman smiled. “It’s so nice that Jonny has friends. He’s in the back, at his loom. Feel free to pop right in.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Taking a deep breath, Martin walked to the back of the shop and opened the door. 

The room was small, and filled with spinning wheels, racks of dyed wool, and other equipment Martin didn’t recognize. The back wall was dominated by an enormous loom with a half-finished tapestry. The pattern was abstract, silver threads forming an intricate web across a violet and indigo haze. Martin could almost pick out shapes: a stag’s head; the twisting course of a river; a screaming face. He took an involuntary step closer, entranced. 

“Martin! What are you doing here?” 

Jon stepped between Martin and the tapestry, and Martin forgot everything else. 

He was wearing a white blouse with lace at the wrists and collar, and tailored black trousers that hugged his calves. His hair was pulled back from his face, with a few loose strands falling into his eyes, which were wide with shock. The pull in Martin’s chest was stronger than ever. 

“I—I missed you,” Martin said, fighting the tightness in his throat. 

Jon glanced over his shoulder, then at the door. “We need to get you out of here. I—just, follow me.” 

Jon took Martin’s hand, and Martin’s heart skipped a beat. Before he could say anything, Martin was dragging him through the rear entrance, down an alley and across multiple streets. He didn’t stop until Martin was nearly out of breath, and they were well out of sight of the knitting shop. Martin sagged against a concrete wall, panting. 

“Well? What is it?” Jon asked impatiently. 

“I—I just wanted to see you.”

_ “Why?”  _ Jon asked. 

“I—we—” Martin stopped and opened his other hand to reveal the stone. 

“Oh…” Jon said, staring with wide eyes. He took Martin’s hand between both of his, staring intently at the stone. “You kept it? All this time?”

“Yes,” Martin said tightly. 

“I never thought…” Jon stared down at the stone for a long moment, then pushed Martin’s hand away. “Martin, you need to leave. Go back home to your fathers. Pretend you never saw me.”

Martin’s heart sank. He’d thought being forgotten was the worst thing that could happen. Apparently he’d been wrong. 

_ “Why,  _ Jon?” he blurted out, then regretted it. Jon didn’t owe him an excuse, and no good could come of Martin knowing precisely how he’d failed. 

Jon’s expression was pained. 

“I—I always thought the spiders cared for me,” he said quietly. “They said they did. That’s why I let them take me, when I was a child. But I was lonely, even with them.” 

Jon looked away, biting his lip. “When the spiders showed you to me, I thought you were my reward for being good.”

Martin’s heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear Jon’s next words. 

“Those days we played together...they were the happiest of my life. I thought I could have everything: the spiders, my freedom, and you. But it was a trick, don’t you see? It’s always a trick with them.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Martin asked. 

“Do you know what you  _ are?” _

“I’m nobody,” Martin said. “There’s nothing special about me.”

“Idiot,” Jon muttered, sighing and pushing his hair out of his face.  _ “No,  _ you’re not ‘nobody,’ you’re the son of Peter Lukas and Elias Bouchard, two of the most powerful men in our world. Furthermore, you’ve an affinity for Web that no one expected. It makes you  _ perfect  _ for them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine you had two powerful rivals,” Jon said. “And you had a way into their house. A spy you could control, and whom you trusted absolutely. A spy who could never question you, because you took away the part of them that asks questions.”

Martin felt his stomach drop, remembering the countless nights he’d slept with a spider on his pillow, whispering sweet promises in his ear. The spiders had always made him feel so special, so treasured, promising the soft embrace of their webs. 

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t know,” Jon said softly. 

“What about you?” Martin asked. 

“...what  _ about _ me?”

“Are you just going to...stay with them? Knowing what they could do to you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon said flatly. 

“Of course it matters! Why wouldn’t it matter?”

“You don’t know what I’ve _done!”_ Jon snapped. “I’m not a good person, Martin! I’m barely even a _person_ at all.”

“I don’t care,” Martin said stubbornly. 

“I could  _ hurt  _ you, Martin,” Jon said, staring into his eyes. “I could make you do anything I wanted. I could make it so you never left my side, no matter how badly I treated you.”

“I  _ want _ to be with you, Jon,” Martin said, taking Jon’s hand in his. 

“Why would you want that?” 

“I don’t know,” Martin admitted. “I just know that I like the way I feel around you. That I never stopped thinking of you, even after all those years.” 

“Martin…”

Jon leaned forward until his face was buried in Martin’s shoulder. Martin’s hands came around his shoulders, instinctively framing him. Jon felt so small in his arms. Martin held him as carefully as he would a bird’s nest or a glass ornament. 

“I missed you,” Jon said quietly. 

“I missed you, too.”

“You shouldn’t help me.”

Martin brushed a strand of hair out of Jon’s face, tucking it behind his ear. Jon made a soft, vulnerable sound, melting into Martin’s chest. 

“Everyone deserves help, Jon,” Martin said.

“If you say so.”

They stood there silently for a long while. Martin couldn’t get over how  _ right  _ it felt, to hold Jon in his arms. He wanted to hold him close, to cup his chin and one hand, and lean down… He stopped that thought in its tracks. This was good enough. 

“I should go back,” Jon said reluctantly. “Before they notice I’m gone.” 

Martin fought the urge to sigh. He’d only just gotten Jon back, and he didn’t want to be parted from him. 

“When will I see you again?” he asked. 

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have a mobile?”

“A what?” Jon asked, blinking. 

“Never mind,” Martin said. “I’ll get you one.”

* * *

Gerry helped Martin pick a mobile for Jon, the same model Martin had. Martin found a case with the same shimmering colors Jon had been wearing at the bus stop. He offered to buy Gerry one, too, but Gerry brushed off the offer. 

“I’ll settle for coffee,” he said. “Besides, character, remember?” 

Martin had been surprised to find out Georgie’s friend had been Jon. He wasn’t sure what Gerry told her, but she gladly agreed to give Jon the mobile and walk him through its basic functions. Martin was a wreck that day, compulsively checking his phone every few minutes for a text from Jon. 

Finally his phone buzzed. The text simply read,  _ Hello.  _

Martin grinned so hard his face hurt.  _ Hello, Jon.  _

_ Thank you for the mobile. I’ve never had one before.  _

_ Now that I’ve got one, though, Georgie keeps trying to send me these things she calls memes? I don’t understand them. Do you understand them? _

_ No, and Gerry won’t tell me, either.  _

After that, they texted almost daily. Jon particularly enjoyed sharing photos of bits of weaving he did (the ones that weren’t cursed). He’d tried to send an update of the tapestry he’d been working on, but all Martin saw was static, and then his phone crashed. Jon was more careful after that. 

Martin learned about the woman that ran the Weaver’s Nest, who let him use her equipment when he wasn’t working and seemed to have no inkling of the Web’s interest in her shop. Jon took commissions from customers, in addition to his more...obscure...pursuits. 

In return, Martin told Jon about the Institute, and his family. Family was a strange concept to Jon, who’d been with the spiders most of his life and only vaguely remembered a grandparent. Martin wished he could introduce Jon to his parents, but he doubted they’d understand. They’d refused to hear anything about Jon after the day in the woods, and no amount of pleading had swayed them. 

_ They were right, though,  _ Jon said one day.  _ I would have hurt you, willingly or not.  _

_ It wouldn’t have been your fault.  _

Jon was leery of meeting in person, but after a few weeks passed with no incident, he consented to meet for coffee at the cafe where Georgie worked. Gerry, of course, invited himself along. Martin wondered if this was what having friends was like. He thought he liked it. 

Georgie greeted them with a wide smile. “Caramel mocha with extra syrup, Jon?”

“I suppose,” Jon said. 

“He orders it every time,” Georgie whispered loudly. 

Martin opted for the same vanilla concoction he’d got last time, and Gerry got something that sounded alarmingly caffeinated. They found a table outside and chatted for a few moments before Jon and Georgie came with their drinks. 

Martin stared at the cup in Jon’s hand. Whatever it was, it had a layer of white foam on top, with lines of caramel and chocolate syrup in the shape of a heart pierced by an arrow. It smelled like an entire sweet shop. 

“What?” Jon asked defensively. 

“It’s just...a lot,” Martin said. 

“Says the man whose drink has more milk than coffee,” Gerry quipped. Martin ignored him.

“Are you judging my artistry?” Georgie accused. 

“N-no!” Martin stammered. “Of course not!”

Jon thrust the cup in his face. “Try it.” 

“A-are you sure?”

“You can’t judge it unless you try it,” Jon said insistently. 

“I don’t want to ruin Georgie’s artwork,” Martin protested. 

“Drink. It.” 

Aware of Jon and Georgie’s eyes on him, Martin held the cup to his lips and took a small sip. Sweetness flooded his mouth, strong but not overpowering, with notes of dark chocolate. It tasted like dessert in a cup. He was fairly certain it should be illegal. 

“Well?” Jon asked impatiently. 

“It’s good,” Martin confessed.  _ “Really _ good.”

Georgie looked quietly smug. 

“I’d swear you two were married,” Gerry said. 

Martin felt his ears grow hot. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jon for fear of what his face might show. 

“...except I wouldn’t envy the fathers-in-law,” Gerry finished. 

“They’re not  _ that  _ bad,” Martin said reflexively. 

“What, are they over-protective?” Georgie asked. 

Jon took a long sip of his drink, looking away. 

“You should have seen the glare Elias gave me the last time I went to the Institute. I swear he thinks I’m after your virtue.” Gerry gave an exaggerated shudder. 

“No one’s after my virtue!” 

“Tell that to your father.” 

Thankfully, Martin managed to steer the conversation to safer topics, like books. Jon was surprisingly well-read, though his tastes were esoteric, to say the least. He’d reference an obscure academic text one moment, then a children’s fantasy novel. He even seemed to have read  _ The Joy of Cooking,  _ though he confessed to having no practical experience. Georgie had a near encyclopedic knowledge of mythology and ghost lore. 

They didn’t talk about spiders, or patrons. For a while, Martin could forget those things existed. He could pretend he was a normal boy having coffee with his mates. He felt like he could grow used to this. 

Eventually it grew dark, and Gerry had to go home. Jon, Georgie, and Martin walked him to his bus stop, chatting along the way. Martin tried not to notice how Jon’s braid swung as he walked, brushing against his back. It looked incredibly soft. 

They were almost at the bus stop when Jon stopped in his tracks. 

“Did you hear that?” he asked. 

Martin strained his ears. There were all the normal sounds, cars and muted conversation, but Jon couldn’t be talking about those. After a moment, he heard a low buzzing sound. 

“I think I do.”

The longer they listened, the louder the buzzing grew. Gerry shot Martin an alarmed look. 

“We should go,” Gerry said. 

Martin was ready to agree when someone stepped in front of them. He recoiled instinctively, pushing his friends behind him. 

The man was incredibly tall. Taller than Martin, taller even than his father. An overwhelming stench came off him in waves, a smell of damp and decay. Flies circled the air around his hair, landing on his face and hands. As Martin watched, one crawled into his nostril, exiting through the corner of his eye. His stomach churned, and he had to fight the urge to vomit. Gerry made a low, frightened sound. 

“Go away, Filth,” Jon demanded, attempting to push past Martin. “We have no business with you.” 

The man laughed, sending a spray of flies into the air. 

“But we have business with you, little spider. Won’t you come into our parlor?”

Another shape appeared on Martin’s left, and he cringed away just before a hand could close on his arm. 

“Run!” Georgie shouted, pulling Martin and Jon with her. 

Martin grabbed hold of Gerry, and they ran back the way they had come. The streets were empty as they passed. There should have been people, Martin thought, but he kept running. He risked a glance over his shoulder. The flesh hives were walking at an unhurried pace. One of them smiled at Martin with a mouth full of worms, and he fought the urge to scream. 

Suddenly Jon stopped, so abruptly Martin nearly crashed into him. Martin grabbed his arms, expecting to see some kind of injury. What he saw was much worse. 

Jon’s face had gone entirely blank. His eyes were empty, wide and unblinking, and his head sagged slightly. His arms hung loosely by his sides. He gave the impression of a marionette with its strings cut. 

“Jon!” Georgie cried, shaking him. “Jon, we have to go!”

Jon was unresponsive. Martin considered carrying him, but he couldn’t run with another person on his shoulders. 

“Jon,  _ please!”  _ Martin begged. 

Neither of them could get Jon to move. Martin realized what he needed to do. He grabbed Gerry's sleeve.

“Find my fathers,” he said urgently. “They’ll know how to help.”

“But what about you?” Georgie demanded. 

“It's us they want. I think they want us alive, but I don't know what they'll do to you." Martin said. "I can’t leave Jon like this. I’ve got to keep him safe. But I can’t do that unless you  _ run.” _

"You'd better come back to us,” Gerry said fiercely. 

Gerry and Georgie pulled him into a quick embrace, squeezing tightly, before they turned and ran towards the Institute. Martin wrapped Jon in his arms, hoping he’d made the right decision. 

“Lost your little friends?” the man with the flies asked. “What a pity.”

The flesh hive grabbed Martin and thrust a foul-smelling rag in his face, and Martin felt himself fade away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin are forced to make choices that will change the course of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to thank all of the people who have supported this fic! My beta, [@cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth), whose suggestions have been invaluable. Cruelest_month and Jenavira, who have been cheerleading this whole time. Crystal Requiem, whose are is an inspiration. The other wonderful folks on my Discord server, who are a source of constant encouragement. And all of the people who have commented! I was not prepared for the response to this fic. This is a wonderful fandom, and I adore you all. <3

Martin’s head was pounding. He groaned and rolled over, squinting against the dim light. It must have been late, because he couldn’t see any sunlight. Just a pair of luminous eyes, inches from his face. 

He screamed—or tried to, but someone slapped a grimy hand over his mouth, shushing him. 

_Jon. _Martin’s heart race at the sight of him. He was a mess, his hair half-pulled out of its braid, and dirt smeared across his face. His blouse was wrinkled, and his leggings were torn in several places, but to Martin's relief he seemed unharmed. 

“It’s better if they don’t know we’re awake,” Jon whispered, finally lowering his hand. 

“What do they want with us?” Martin asked, as quietly as he could manage. 

“I...I don’t know,” Jon said. “And that bothers me.”

Martin had never seen Jon look so..._ lost. _Even as a child, he’d seemed so self-assured, so confident of the world and his place in it. Martin had seen Jon worried before, even frightened, but now he seemed completely unmoored. He recalled the sight of Jon’s blank face and empty eyes, his arms hanging limp by his sides like a doll’s, and shuddered. 

In an effort to distract himself, Martin looked around the room. They seemed to be in a cellar, cool and damp, with rough concrete walls. There were no windows, and the only light came from a dim bulb overhead. In the corner was a small water closet behind an open door. Across the room, Martin could see a heavy steel door. The space was otherwise featureless, offering no ready opportunities for escape. His heart sank as he realized just how trapped they were. 

“I’m afraid,” he said quietly. 

For a long moment, Jon was silent, staring down at the floor. “Me, too,” he said. 

Martin sat up, wrapping his arms around his friend. Jon hugged him back. Even in the darkness of the cellar, Jon’s arms felt incredibly good around him. Some part of him railed against the unfairness of it all, of finding Jon after so many years only to risk losing him all over again. They’d never even had a proper chance. 

“This is my fault,” Jon said against his shoulder. 

“No, it isn’t,” Martin argued. 

“It _ is. _They never would have caught you if you hadn’t stopped for me.” 

“You don’t know that, Jon. And that wasn’t your fault.” 

“You should have let them take me,” Jon said angrily. 

“And lose my best friend?” 

“I’m your...friend?” Jon looked genuinely surprised. 

“Of course. Why do you think I talk to you so much?”

“I’ve just never had...friends, before you and Georgie,” Jon said. “I think I like it?”

Martin smiled and squeezed Jon tighter. 

“I like it, too,” Martin said. 

They sat in silence for a few moments. 

“What happened to you, though?” Martin asked. “Earlier. Before…”

Jon shuddered. “I don’t know. It felt like...like being locked inside myself. I could see and feel everything, but I couldn’t _ move. _I wanted so badly to scream at you, to tell you to run, but I couldn’t even blink.” 

Martin’s arms tightened around Jon. “How—how could that happen?” 

“Do you know the other name they call the Web?” Jon asked softly. “Mother of Puppets.”

The name was surprisingly fitting. After all, the Web had manipulated them both from the beginning, courting them, playing them against each other—and finally seizing Jon’s strings. To what end, he could only guess.

“Why would she want you to be caught by the Corruption?” he asked. 

Jon looked away. “I don’t think that was her goal.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think she wanted _ you _to be caught.” 

The thought made Martin’s heart race, and he clutched Jon even more tightly. 

“Do you think Gerry and Georgie made it?” he asked. 

“I hope so,” Jon said, burying his face in Martin’s shoulder. 

“I do, too.”

* * *

Jon was the first to notice the spiders creeping under the door: first a few, then dozens at a time, until they formed a black carpet that spanned several feet. Martin’s stomach churned at the sight of so many chitinous legs moving in synchrony. What had once been a comfort now only frightened him. 

_ We have missed you, sweet hatchling, _the spiders said. They spoke as one, if it could be called speaking: sounds that could come from no human mouth, almost like strings being plucked. As a child, Martin had found the effect almost musical. Now it set his teeth on edge, and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. 

“If you wanted to see me, you could have asked,” he said. 

_ You are closely guarded, little one, _ they said. _ Best to meet with you here, beyond the reach of prying Eyes _

“Alright,” Martin said. “I’m here. What did you want to talk about?”

_ We want you to come with us, to join us in the Mother’s embrace. To weave the most beautiful webs, and dance to her song. _

“I’m sorry. I can’t do that,” he said, voice shaking. 

_ You used to love us, _ the spiders cajoled. _ You treasured us, let us guard your pillow as you slept. We were your friends. _

They weren’t lying. He had spent so many hours talking to the spiders. They were his greatest confidants and his closest friends. He spent so many nights dreaming of the Web’s embrace. 

Martin’s throat went tight. “I did. And thank you for that.” 

The spiders let out a chorus of pleased chirps and hisses. _ And what of the gift we gave you? _they pressed.

“What gift?” Martin asked, confused.

_ Our hatchling. Are you not fond of him? _

“People aren’t gifts!” he cried, horrified. 

_ But he is yours, nonetheless. You can have him, forever and ever. Your fathers would never let you, but we _will. 

“Jon’s not a_ thing!” _ Martin snapped. “I don’t want to own him!”

“Would that be so bad?” Jon asked. 

Martin turned to face him, then wished he hadn’t: Jon was smiling at him, though his eyes were utterly empty. Bile rose in his throat. 

“You’d have a friend who could never leave,” Jon said serenely. “A lover who will always adore you. A pretty doll with which to play.”

_ “Stop it!” _ Martin shouted, scrambling away. “Let him go! Please!”

Jon clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and fearful. The spiders continued, with their own voice this time. 

_ What can we give you, beautiful hatchling? _they asked. 

“Nothing!” Martin said miserably. “I want to go home.” 

The crowd of spiders surged, and a loud hiss filled the room. Martin and Jon cringed back against the wall. 

_ You will change your mind, _the spiders promised. 

Slowly, the spiders crept away, disappearing one by one beneath the steel door. Martin didn’t dare to move until well after the last of them was gone. 

* * *

“Why do they want me to be willing?” Martin asked. 

Jon sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “The willing make the best puppets. The more you fight them, the more of you they have to...remove. If they took you unwillingly, your fathers would notice.” 

Martin shuddered. Jon reached out to take his hand, squeezing gently. Even now, the gesture made Martin’s heart race.

“I hate that they talked about you like that,” he said. 

“Like what?” Jon asked, confused.

“Like a thing_, _ instead of a person," Martin said, still shaken by the memory of Jon's empty eyes. "I don’t want t-to... _ own _you.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Jon said. 

_ “What?” _

Jon smiled mirthlessly. “Freedom is an illusion, Martin. Everyone has someone pulling the strings, whether they see them or not.” Jon’s face softened. “If I have to belong to someone, I’d want it to be you.”

Before Martin could offer a rebuttal, the door left out a loud creak. They both turned to watch apprehensively as it slowly opened. 

“Soup’s on,” the flesh hive said, holding up a greasy paper bag. Flies circled his head and crawled down his arms. As they watched, a maggot oozed from under his thumbnail and crawled onto the bag. 

The hive threw the bag at them, and it hit Martin in the legs. He scrambled backwards, frantically brushing off the maggot, and the flesh hive laughed. 

“You’ll hurt our feelings,” he said, grinning. His mouth was unnaturally wide, a ragged slash in his worm-eaten face. The sight made Martin’s stomach turn. 

The hive tossed a second bag at them, this one heavier. It landed next to Jon with a sloshing sound. 

Martin sat up as straight as he could, staring the creature in the face. “You should take me back before my fathers find you,” he said impulsively. 

“I have no fear for Eyes,” the creature said. “And we are _ never _alone.” 

“They’re going to find me,” Martin insisted. “And when they do, you’ll regret it.” 

“What sweet delusions you have. You almost sound like you believe them.” 

Laughing again, the creature left. 

“You shouldn’t provoke them,” Jon said quietly. 

“It seemed worth a try.” 

Martin inspected the bag by his feet. It contained two hamburgers wrapped in foil, a smaller bag of chips inside. The smell made his stomach rumble loudly. 

“They’re probably—cursed, or something,” Martin said. 

Jon opened his own bag and pulled out two bottles of water. 

“I don’t think so, honestly. The Web seems to want you intact.”

Martin opened the foil on one of the burgers and sniffed it. It smelled heavenly. He had no idea how long it had been since he last ate, not without a clock or light. 

“It smells normal enough,” he said, taking a careful bite. 

It was cold and greasy, but his empty stomach celebrated. He took a bite of one of the chips. It was limp and over-salted, but otherwise normal. 

“It seems alright.” He handed Jon the second burger and set the chips between them. 

“Are you my royal taster?” Jon asked with a crooked smile. 

Martin flushed. “I—well—there’s no sense in us _ both _ getting poisoned.”

Jon leaned over and gently kissed Martin’s cheek. For a moment, Martin forgot how to breathe, unable to process what had just happened. His cheek tingled at the short contact. 

“Thank you,” Jon said, turning his attention to the chips. 

* * *

The next few days continued in a similar fashion. At least Martin thought they were days; the flesh hives alternated between bringing stale scones and takeaway. Martin had never eaten so many chips in his life, and the grease sat heavily in his stomach. He badly needed a shower, and Jon’s hair was growing lank and dull. 

In between meals, the spiders would return, and more of them each time. Martin had never understood the fear of spiders until they began crawling over his legs. They were growing less patient as time wore on, and Martin suspected they were running out of time. 

“What should I do?” Martin asked desperately, hugging his knees to his chest. 

Jon reached out, covering Martin’s hand with his. 

“I can’t lose you,” he said. “I don’t want them to take you, but...I can’t stop them, either.” He looked down, his jaw clenching tightly. “I just need something of you to be left.”

Martin clasped Jon’s hand tightly. In truth, he didn’t want to be hollowed out, either. The thought of leaving behind an empty shell made his stomach roil. He imagined it interacting with his fathers, with Gerry and Georgie. With _ Jon. _His vision went blurry with tears. Jon, all alone, with only a puppet for company. 

“I won’t leave you,” Martin said fiercely. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jon whispered. “I didn’t want this for you.”

“I know.” Martin swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. His tears smeared the dirt on his hands, and he wiped them uselessly on his shirt. 

“I’m going to say yes,” he said quietly. “This might be the last time I’m...me.” 

Jon leaned over to wrap his arms around Martin. Martin laid his head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his hair.

“If this is the last time,” Jon said softly. “I’d like…” 

He trailed off, and Martin lifted his head to look up at him. Jon’s eyes were fixed on his face—specifically, his mouth. Martin’s heart raced. 

He wasn’t sure which one of them leaned in first, but their lips met, and he clutched Jon’s shoulders like a lifeline. His tears fell between their faces, but he ignored them, lost in the sensation of Jon’s mouth against his, the slide of their lips, the gentle pressure of his tongue. Martin heard someone whimper. It might have been him. 

When he pulled back, Jon’s face was as wet as his. 

“I love you, you know,” Martin said, raising his hand to Jon’s cheek. “I always have.”

Fresh tears flowed down Jon’s face, and he nuzzled Martin’s hand, holding it in both of his. 

“I’ve never...I don’t know what that feels like,” Jon admitted. 

“That’s alright. I just needed you to...know.”

Jon pressed his lips to Martin’s palm, making Martin’s breath catch in his throat. “I never stopped thinking about you, even when we were separated. At first, I thought of seeing you again, of having you with me always. When I finally understood what they wanted you for...I knew I shouldn’t see you again, but I _ wanted _ to.”

Martin pulled him close, overwhelmed by the feelings bursting in his chest. 

“It was worth it,” he said quietly. “Seeing you again. Even if it was only for a little while.”

As Martin breathed in Jon’s scent, he could hear the skittering of millions of tiny legs approaching. Without letting go, he turned to watch them approach. There were more of them than ever, ranging from the smallest house spiders to tarantulas the size of rats: crawling over each other, over the walls, flooding the room with their black and grey and brown bodies and their glittering dark eyes. 

_ Sweet hatchling, _ they whispered. _ Will you be ours, always and forever, and listen to the sweet songs our Mother spins? Her love will consume you, envelop you, with webs that shine like starlight. _

The spiders began crawling over his feet, his calves, his thighs. His heart raced, and fine tremor spread over his limbs. He clung to Jon as tightly as he could. 

“I…” he began, swallowing and staring down at the glistening black bodies with their many legs. The spiders climbed him eagerly, surrounding him, and his throat went dry. 

_ “He’s not yours to take!” _

A loud hiss filled the room, followed by clouds of white vapor. The spiders screamed as one, nearly deafening him; he scrambled to his feet, pulling Jon with him. 

“Martin!” Papa shouted through the haze. 

Strong hands seized Martin’s arm, hauling him through the white cloud; he pulled Jon with him, until they were out of the basement. His head was spinning, but they didn’t stop, pulling him up the stairs so fast he could barely keep up. At the top, he was hit by a light so bright he cringed and buried his face in Jon’s shoulder. 

“We’ve got to keep going,” Elias urged. 

Martin squinted, blinking against the light—the sun shining through a window. He and Jon had been trapped in the nearly lightless cellar for so long that even sunlight hurt. Something dark caught his eye, and he looked down at the floor and screamed. 

The man with the flies and maggots was dead, his face battered and his head caved in. Even his swarm was dead, hundreds of chitinous bodies lying still on the floor. Martin glanced at his fathers. Elias was holding a heavy lead pipe smeared with something dark and wet. Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” Elias said, pulling him towards the door. Jon’s hand tightened on Martin’s, and they emerged from the house. 

“Stand back,” Papa said. He struck a match and tossed it inside before slamming the door shut. Martin realized he could smell petrol. Through the window, he could see flames rising from the floor, followed by the sting of smoke. Jon’s hand tightened in his.

Them didn’t have time to watch. His fathers pushed them towards the street, where a van was waiting. Papa ushered the two of them into it before climbing in himself and sweeping Martin into a tight hug. 

“When did you get so brave?” he asked. “You certainly didn’t get that from me.”

“What are you—?”

“Mr. Keay told us what you did,” Elias said, joining them in the embrace. He tucked his chin over Martin’s shoulder, burying his face in Martin’s hair. It felt so good that Martin could have wept, surrounded by the warmth and safety of his fathers’ presence.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he protested.

“You could have run,” Elias told him. “Or else, let Gerard get caught with you. But you chose to sacrifice yourself.”

“Never do that again,” Papa said, holding Martin so tight he could barely breathe. “Be a coward.”

Elias pulled away, fixing Jon with an intent look. 

“I believe I warned you about interfering with my son,” he said coldly. 

“It wasn’t like that!” Martin said, turning to face him. “Jon is my friend.” 

“I _ told _you, spiders don’t—”

“I love him,” Jon said quietly. 

Martin’s heart nearly stopped, and he stared. Jon smiled at him, a little crookedly, and it was the most beautiful thing Martin had ever seen. 

“You _ what?” _Papa demanded. 

“I love him, too,” Martin said, taking Jon’s hand in his. Jon’s expression was giddy, and Martin couldn’t help but smile back at him. 

“Good lord,” Elias murmured. 

“I don’t want to be with the spiders anymore,” Jon said. “I just want to be with Martin. Please don’t send me back.”

“We won’t,” Martin promised. 

“Martin—” Elias began. 

“We._ Won’t.” _ Martin repeated, gripping Jon’s hand tighter. 

His fathers exchanged a look, before Elias turned and sighed. 

“I’ll see what we can do.”

* * *

Martin’s fathers spent over an hour locked in Elias’s office, deep in discussion. Jon and Martin were under orders to stay inside the Institute, which neither of them were inclined to disobey after their ordeal. 

Gerry and Georgie were there to greet them, wrapping them in a massive hug. 

“You idiot,” Georgie said, glaring at Martin. “You brave, stupid idiot. 

“I’m...sorry?” he said awkwardly. 

Georgie kissed both his cheeks, leaving smears of pink lipstick and making him flush. Then she grabbed Jon and bestowed the same treatment while he squirmed like a wet cat, though he looked a bit pleased.

“You reek,” Gerry said cheerfully. 

“They didn’t exactly let us shower down there,” Martin said. 

“Down where?” Georgie asked. “They wouldn’t give us any details. We’ve been worried sick.” 

By turns, Jon and Martin told them what had happened. Not just the flesh hives, but the very beginning, from the book that had lured Jon to the spiders, to their meeting in the woods, and finding each other again. Martin had never heard about Mr. Spider before, and he found himself clutching Jon’s hand even tighter. 

Georgie was surprisingly unruffled by their confession. 

“I always knew you were a bit spooky,” she said, ruffling Jon’s hair. 

Jon wrinkled his nose. “That’s a ridiculous word.”

Eventually Elias came to collect them, and Georgie and Gerry gave them a last hug and said their goodbyes.

The room Elias led them to was one Martin had never seen before, a windowless chamber with a mosaic on the center of the floor. The tiles were small and irregular, in every color imaginable, from blues and violets so deep they looked black, to delicate pinks and yellows. Together they formed a single, iridescent eye. 

“We can free you from the Web,” Elias said. “But there will be a cost.”

“I’ll do it,” Jon said without hesitation. 

“What cost?” Martin demanded. 

“You must take a new patron,” Papa explained. “And sever your ties to the old.” 

“I’m afraid it won’t be pleasant,” Elias added.

“I don’t care,” Jon said. “Not if it means I can be with Martin.”

Martin bit his lip, staring at him. He felt like his chest might burst. 

His fathers’ plan was surprisingly simple. First Jon would bind himself to Beholding. Then Papa would take them into the Lonely, and Elias would sever the last of his ties to the Web. 

Everything about it was logical. Martin hated it.

“We can’t send him there,” he argued. 

“It’s the only way to weaken his bindings enough for me to break them,” Elias explained patiently.

“I can handle it,” Jon said. 

“You don’t know what it’s like in there!” Martin cried. His heart was racing, and his hands were cold and sweaty. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

Papa’s hand closed over Martin’s shoulder. 

“It won’t be like last time, love,” he said softly. “We’ll be together.”

* * *

Whatever Martin had been expecting for the binding, it hadn’t been his father producing a nondescript contract and a fountain pen. 

“Your employment contract,” Elias said, offering the pen to Jon. 

“Is that it?” Martin asked skeptically. “No...night-time drives into the countryside? No mysterious chapels leading into an infinite wilderness?”

“The contract will suffice,” Elias said stiffly. 

Jon scrutinized the page, and Martin read it over his shoulder. It seemed like a fairly ordinary employment contract, though Martin knew little enough about those. No mention of Beholding, or the Eye. Only things like stipends and expenditures. Jon signed it in a cramped, nearly illegible scrawl. 

“I don’t feel any different,” Jon said, frowning. 

“You will soon,” Elias promised. 

Martin didn’t like the sound of that. 

“Are you sure you want to do this, Jon?” he asked. 

Jon fixed him with a level gaze. “If this is how I can be with you, then yes.”

Martin’s heart felt far too large for his body, like it would burst through his ribs if he wasn’t careful. He took Jon’s hand and squeezed it, and Jon smiled shyly. 

“Good lord,” Elias muttered, before Papa elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Are you ready, lads?” Papa asked. 

Martin took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure if he was clutching Jon’s hand for Jon’s sake, or his own. They both nodded. 

The change was subtle, at first: a slight drop in temperature, an impression of seeing things through a layer of gauze. The colors of the mosaic beneath them became muted, desaturated. Martin could only dimly feel Jon’s hand touching his. He turned to face Jon, and gasped. 

Jon was bound with shimmering strands of web. They circled his wrists, his ankles, his throat; they wrapped around his arms and thighs and chest, covered his mouth and obscured his eyes. The webs extended upwards toward the ceiling, disappearing into the distance. They gave the impression of puppet strings. 

“Jon!” he cried, prying at the web binding his wrist. It was disconcertingly soft, clinging to his fingers as he tried to pull it loose, and the sticky texture made him shudder. 

“Martin, you can’t do this for him,” Elias said quietly. “We can help, but ultimately, this is his decision.” 

Elias placed one hand over the webs covering Jon’s eyes, and they...evaporated, as far as Martin could tell. When Elias lowered his hand, Jon’s eyes were wild, panicked. 

“I can give you your sight, and the means to your freedom. The rest is yours.” 

Elias placed something in Jon’s left hand: a knife, with a wicked, gleaming edge. Jon gripped it tightly, then slid it under the web binding his right wrist. The blade was sharp, but it still took several minutes to saw through the cord, and by the end of it, Jon was panting. 

“You’re doing very well,” Elias said. 

Jon nodded shakily, then switched hands. The strand binding his wrist shifted, making him jerk, and he cried out in pain. Drops of bright blood fell from his wrist to the mosaic below, right in the center of the eye.

“Jon!” Martin shouted, reaching instinctively for his friend. Jon’s bound hand lashed out, striking with unnatural strength, and Martin hit the ground hard. Jon’s eyes were stricken, and damp with tears. 

Papa helped him to his feet, folding him into an embrace that was half comfort, half restraint.

“Elias told you, love, we can’t do this for him,” he said gently. 

“But he’s hurting himself,” Martin protested.

“It will hurt,” Elias agreed. “He’s been bound for a very long time. There are consequences to breaking that sort of bond.”

Jon gritted his teeth and resumed cutting the cord around his wrist. Occasionally the knife grazed against the wound, making him flinch, but he didn’t stop until he’d freed his hand. He flexed the fingers of his hand, looking deeply relieved. 

“It’s working!” Martin cheered. Jon’s eyes smiled at him as he worked his way up the bonds encircling his arms. 

Martin wasn’t certain how long it took, but it seemed that he watched Jon work through his bonds for hours, if not days. His heart raced the whole time. Some of the webs were so tight they were half-buried in his skin, and Jon got more than a few cuts from digging those out. Papa had to restrain Martin with hands on both his shoulders to stop him from rushing to Jon’s side. 

Slowly, Jon freed his arms, his legs, his chest. By the time he uncovered his mouth, he was breathing raggedly, but the look on his face was triumphant. The last bond to go was the one around his throat. He had just slipped the knife under the web when it began to tighten. 

Jon choked, clawing at the web with his other hand as his face went pink, and then red. The knife sliced into his fingers, and his hands grew slick with blood as he struggled. 

“Jon!” Martin cried, pushing his way out of his father’s arms. Elias moved to stop him, but Martin dodged him, going straight for Jon. 

“You can do this!” Martin insisted, steadying Jon’s arm with his hands. “You’re almost there!”

Jon gasped for air that wasn’t coming, eyes going hazy and faint, but with one last surge of effort, he sliced through the web, and was free. He sagged into Martin’s arms. 

“Jon, _ Jon—” _

Jon gripped his shoulder tightly, and Martin sighed with relief, uncaring of the blood staining his skin and his clothes. As they embraced, the world began to regain its colors and its warmth, and Jon’s body grew increasingly solid in his arms. A fine tremor went over Jon, and his shoulders began to shake. 

“It’s alright, Jon,” he whispered.

Martin’s fathers quietly left the room, and Jon cried into his chest, great heaving sobs that shook his body. Martin held him tight and stroked his hair, dropping kisses on Jon’s face as his own tears threatened to spill. 

After so many years, Jon was no longer the spider’s child. 

* * *

Martin was nineteen when he began university. His father, Elias, had hoped for Oxford, but Martin preferred to stay in London. After all, his family was there. He shared a flat with his friends and ate dinner with his fathers several nights a week. 

Martin was also in love. So deeply in love that his friends laughed and rolled their eyes, but he didn’t mind. He’d finally found the strange, impossible boy who’d haunted his dreams, and Jon loved him back just as fiercely. They argued often, but rarely with any heat, and they spent their nights curled up together under the supervision of their calico cat, Her Ladyship. 

He no longer heard the spiders’ whispers at night. Her Ladyship kept the flat quite free of pests. He knew the spiders were out there, watching, waiting. But he also knew he and Jon would be prepared. 

After his classes, Martin would stop by the Institute, or by his Papa’s office. Papa spent most of his time in London these days, and styled himself an antiquities dealer. If that wasn’t strictly accurate, Martin didn’t argue. 

On a crisp autumn day, over a year after he’d arrived in London, Martin and his friends walked to the park. Gerry had packed a picnic lunch, which Martin carried, and Georgie brought a thermos of hot tea. They ate under the shade of a gnarled oak tree, watching the play of light through dying leaves. 

They chatted about all the normal things: Martin’s classes, Georgie’s podcast, Jon’s research. Gerry had just started full time at the Institute, and no longer spoke to his mother. Martin took as many pictures as they would tolerate before Georgie and Jon started pulling faces at the camera. Little did they know, those were the photos Martin liked best. He smiled at the last one he’d taken, with Georgie pretending to faint into Jon’s arms, while Gerry feigned shock. 

He was torn from his thoughts when Gerry shrieked and slammed the thermos to the ground. 

“Are you alright?” Martin asked. 

“Yeah,” Gerry said, panting. “I just thought I saw a spider.” 

Georgie pulled him into a hug. Jon and Martin exchanged a look, but there were no more spiders in the vicinity, at least that they could see. None of them were fond of crawling things these days. Not after what they’d been through. 

“It’s starting to get cold,” Gerry commented. “Ready to go home?” 

They began to gather their things, and Jon helped Martin to his feet. For someone who barely reached Martin’s chest, he was surprisingly strong. He took a moment to wrap Jon in a tight hug, then picked up the picnic basket. 

“What was that for?” Jon asked with a crooked smile. 

“Nothing,” Martin said. “I’m just very happy.”

Hand in hand, surrounded with friends on either side, they began to walk home. 


End file.
